“Well, girl?” His voice cut through the noisy music like a knife.
Weakly, with the tears coursing down her face, Vanessa tried again, knowing that it wouldn’t work.
“I have told you the truth. I ran away.”
“So you ran away. From what did you run away?”
“From an orphanage.”
He hit her. He hit her face. The pain did not matter. The shock did.
“You are a telepath,” he said. “You picked the wrong man, girlie. I know about telepaths. You wanted music as a block, so you couldn’t send and couldn’t be probed. Well, clever one, how am I doing?”
It was the end. Vanessa knew it was the end. She was too tired, too hungry, too weak to care. Vaguely, she wondered what the punishment would be when she was sent back. That did not seem to matter, either.
“You are doing fine,” she managed to say. “My name is Vanessa Smith and I ran away from Random Hill, a school for paranormals. You may even get a reward for turning me in… Have you anything to eat, please?”
He went back to his chair. There was a look of triumph on his face. He poured himself some more whisky.
“Well, child, we begin to understand each other. So you are one of the nation’s gifted children. How interesting. But let us play fair. Parity of opportunity. I am Roland Badel, doctor of psychology. No, erase. Ex-doctor of psychology. I was made ex by a cunning and rather delightful girl just about your age. At the time, I was quite cut up about it, as I recollect.”
Vanessa didn’t know what he was talking about or, indeed, if the words he uttered made any sense. But she managed to say: “I’m sorry. Have you anything to eat?”
“Have I anything to eat?” The superior smile on his face faded as he remembered how he had found her, unconscious with two smashed eggs in her hand. “Forgive me. Wretched hospitality. I have been alone too much. What would you like?”
“Milk?” asked Vanessa hopefully. “Bread?”
“Milk and bread,” he said contritely. “Also bacon, eggs, fish—what would you like most of all?”
The room was wavering. He was wavering. The 1812 was wavering.
“Most of all,” said Vanessa, “I would like to die.”
Then the blessed darkness came, and she had nothing to worry about any more.
7
JENNY PARGETTER SAT at a table in the American Bar at the old Dorchester, sipping a gin and tonic moodily. Simon had promised to meet her at six o’clock. It was now ten minutes past. At half past they were supposed to take a French oil executive and his wife to early dinner before going on to the theatre.
When he had called on the V-phone, Simon said he had some news about Vanessa. He didn’t have time to give it then because he was on his way to some wretched conference. If he didn’t come soon, the French couple would arrive; and then Jenny would have to sit through dinner, polite conversation, a boring play, more polite conversation and late drinks before her curiosity could be satisfied. She hoped the Frenchman did not want to go on to a night club. So many of these visiting executives did. It was almost a conditioned reflex.
Jenny looked round the bar and sighed. A couple of tri-di personalities were chatting up a perfectly revolting girl who probably had pots of money. An aged actor was quietly and systematically getting himself stoned on Scotch. A striking Indian woman in a gold and red sari was listening attentively to the loud bad jokes of an ugly fat man who seemed familiar but could well be anything from a diamond merchant to a South American dictator. And scattered around were small groups of suburbanites pretending they were living it up.
Soon the Dorchester would be demolished—to make way for something hideous and half a mile high. Park Lane would never be the same again.
Jenny’s reverie was broken by Simon’s arrival. It was now twenty past six.
“Sorry I’m late, darling. Last minute idiocies. Shall I get you another drink?”
“We don’t have time,” she said despondently. “What about Vanessa?”
“The good news first Jean Baptiste has been called back to Paris. The evening is ours.”
Jenny smiled with relief. “Allah is merciful. Yes, I will have another drink. A large one.”
Simon signalled a waiter.
“Is it bad news about Vanessa?”
“No, not really. I persuaded the company to let me have one of our best espeople for a couple of days, a man named Draco. He went to the Richmond Children’s Home, where you left the baby, and met with a blank wall. No record, they said, of a Vanessa Smith.”
Jenny spilled her drink. “My God! There has to be.”
“Quite. But no public record. Draco displayed folding money, but it didn’t work. Then, on his way out, he flash-probed a dear old soul who looked as if she had been working there a million years.”
“What does flash-probed mean?”
“He splashed her mind with what he knew about Vanessa, which wasn’t much, and then listened for echoes. Incredibly the old girl remembered the year, remembered the baby, remembered you. So Draco went back to the front office and threatened them with tri-di, the press, habeas corpus, criminal investigation, questions in the House, and anything else he could think of.
They wilted—unofficially. It seems that Vanessa stayed there until she was seven years old. Then, apparently, the Department of Human Resources sent psych squads to all the orphanages in the country to pick up any potential paranormals for intensive training. Vanessa had a high esrate. So she was taken to a special school, a place called Random Hill. Draco went to Random Hill and talked to a Doctor Lindemann. He tried to pull the same bluff as at Richmond, but Lindemann wasn’t buying. He denied Vanessa’s existence, claimed to be covered by the Official Secrets Act and threatened to call the fuzz if Draco didn’t depart at Mach Three.”
“So the trail is lost, then?”
“No. Draco is a persistent creature. He is well paid for his persistence—among other things. He waited outside the perimeter—an electrified fence, by the way—until he saw kids playing in the grounds. Then he flash-probed once more. He got a response, but it was cut off quickly.” Simon drank deeply of his own gin and tonic, “Sweet Jeez, I needed that.”
“What did Draco learn?” Jenny gripped her fingers until the knuckles were white.
“Only that she had recently gone over the fence. Nobody seems to know if she is alive or dead.”
“She is alive,” said Jenny. “Dammit, how many dreams have I had since that night? Do you remember the time I got up and ate raw eggs because I told you I was starving.” Her voice had risen.
“Take it easy, sweet. People are beginning to look at us.”
“And the time I screamed,” cried Jenny, unheeding, “because I saw a man whose face had been mutilated?” “Jenny, pull yourself together. They’ll throw us out.”
“Vanessa is alive,” said Jenny. “I know she is. But she needs help. What can I do, Simon? Oh, God, what can I do?”
Sir Joseph Humboldt, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, strolled in the garden at Number Ten Downing Street with Richard Haynes, his First Private Secretary, and half a dozen paras. The presence of the paranormals—two sensitives, one rapport, two blockers and a seeker—were necessary even when Sir Joseph was only admiring his roses. One never knew when some ambitious agent might try to probe the mind of the Prime Minister.
“Well, Dick, what do you think of that for a Western Sun?” Sir Joseph paused by a bush laden with great golden blooms.
“Magnificent, sir.” Haynes was well aware of the great pride the Prime Minister took in the fact that he always found time to tend his own roses. He tried a frail joke and instantly regretted it. “Even the Opposition will allow that you have green fingers.”
The Rt. Hon. Thomas Green, M.P., was the leader of the New Consensus Party; and in the current session Sir Joseph had given him a fair pounding, chiefly on the recent Security of the State Bill, by which the government reserved the right to recruit, enlist, commandeer all persons of k
nown paranormal talent for the protection of the state.
Sir Joseph, being in a good mood, laughed. “Something might be made of that. Work it up and try it on our friends of the press. They will need such trifles to fill their pages in the silly season.”
“Yes, sir.” Haynes realised that he had got off lightly. Sir Joseph had the knack of delivering a compliment like a forearm smash.
The two men, with their retinue of paras, passed a single bush that displayed red, white and blue roses. It was the gift of the President of France. Sir Joseph looked at the bush and sniffed. He did not care for the French President. He was amazed that the bush was doing so well.
“What about Professor Raeder?” he asked abruptly.
“I have no news, sir. Security forces are on maximum alert.”
“I want him dead,” said Sir Joseph. “I don’t care how it is done, but I want him dead. Let it be known.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Only because he wants me dead,” went on the Prime Minister. “As a private person I could accept risks. But as the king’s First Minister, I cannot. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then see to it, Dick. Get those well-paid security people off their fat backsides. Dammit, the man is mortal. He exists, and he exists in the United Kingdom. If our people cannot take him out, they are not worth their salt.”
“Yes sir… Sir, you have a Parliamentary Question.” Haynes took a House of Commons order paper from his pocket and began to read: “Question twenty-three: To ask the Prime Minister if he can assure the House that Vanessa Smith, a British citizen, is not being restrained forcibly at Random Hill Residential School, an institution for children of paranormal talents, against her will.”
Sir Joseph stopped by a splendid rose bush bowed under the weight of a large number of full red blooms. He plucked one of the best and gave it to his Secretary. “Put that in your lapel, Dick. It’s a beauty.” He gazed distastefully at a neighbouring bush of Papa Meilland, also laden with blooms. “Far superior to this French crap… Vanessa Smith? Who the devil is Vanessa Smith?”
“She is an orphan, sir. Seventeen years old. A paranormal of exceptional powers.”
“Tom Green is having his fun, I suppose. Wants to show that I am pre-empting the Bill? Well, what about this Vanessa Smith? Is she at Random Hill? Can we produce her? Will she say that she is having a fine time and loves everybody?”
Haynes swallowed, and fumbled with the rose he had just been given. “Sir, she was at Random Hill, but we cannot produce her. She went over the wall.”
“Christ Jesus!” the Prime Minister exploded. “If she does exist, and we can’t produce her to say that all is lovely, my Bill falls flat on its tiny. What answer have you drafted?”
Dick Haynes brought another piece of paper from his pocket. “His Majesty’s Government has no knowledge of the person referred to as Vanessa Smith. However, enquiries are being pursued, and information will be given to the House as soon as it is obtained. His Majesty’s Government assumes that the question has been asked in good faith and that the person named is not an invention of political imagination.”
Sir Joseph thought for a moment or two. “That is either very weak or very strong. Events will decide which. Find this Vanessa Smith very soon, and have her say the right things. If she won’t say the right things, arrange an accident. If you can’t find her, expunge the records. She never existed. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“I smell Raeder in this business,” said Sir Joseph irritably. “It is the sort of thing he would feed to Tom Green. Yes, I smell Raeder… Get security moving, Dick. And if they take out this Vanessa Smith as well, I shall not complain. The dead are usually less embarrassing than the living.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Roses,” said Sir Joseph, sniffing at a Marilyn Monroe, “are a great consolation.”
8
VANESSA WOKE UP screaming. She sat upright—not knowing where she was—with sweat dripping from her forehead and tears rolling down her cheeks, and screamed uncontrollably in the semi-darkness, remembering the nightmares, phantoms, and cacophony of insistent voices that seemed to have transformed her mind into a psychic waste land.
Suddenly the room was flooded with soft light, and the man with the disfigured face was sitting on the bed; and Vanessa found herself leaning against his chest, found her hair being stroked with slow, soothing motions, as she sobbed uncontrollably.
“Child, child,” said Roland Badel gently, “calm down. Take it easy. I haven’t sent for the fuzz. No one knows you are here. Relax.”
“I’m not a child,” sniffed Vanessa inconsequentially. “I’m practically a woman.”
He laughed. “So you are. I have reason to know.”
Then she realised that she was in a bed, between soft clean sheets, and wearing nothing but a man’s shirt that was far too big for her.
She shivered, then felt her face burning with embarrassment.
“Should I have left you in wet clothes? Should I have done nothing about the cuts and scratches on your body?” He held her hand. “Listen to me, Vanessa. Forgive me for drinking myself stupid, for being brutal… You were quite a shock, you see. You reminded me of… Well, that’s a long story. Some other time… I’m sober, now. Sober enough to realise that, in the state you were in, I must have seemed like something out of a peculiarly horrible nightmare. Forgive me. I have tried to atone by attending to the needs of the child. I did not touch the woman. Believe that… Probe my mind, if you can, if you want to.”
Vanessa shot a quick probe. His mind was open, waiting. What he had said was true. But she discovered more than that, much more.
“You confused me with Susan Stride,” she said unsteadily. “The girl who tried to kill you. Now, you want to help me because you think of both of us as refugees. Also,” she faltered, blushing again. “Also, you feel a kind of love.”
“So now you must realise why people like me are afraid of people like you,” he said. “You unnerve us. You make us naked.” Again he laughed. “Which is more shocking—me undressing your body, or you undressing my mind?”
“I’m sorry,” said Vanessa contritely. “It was by invitation. I won’t do it again, unless you allow me, or unless…”
“Unless you think I will betray you?”
She nodded. “Is that unreasonable?”
“No.” He smiled. “Remember only that I can feel a probe. I give you that information free of charge. Incidentally, don’t worry about the love element. I can contain it. I will try not to offend you.”
“What are you going to do—about me?”
“Do you want to probe again?”
“No. I’m just asking.”
“Well, then. I’m going to look after you, feed you, help you get back your strength.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards? Refugees like us, Vanessa, find it difficult to consider an abstraction called afterwards. We live from hour to hour, day to day.”
Suddenly, Vanessa stiffened. The nightmare voices had returned. They were somehow nibbling away at her mind. She set up a block, but she did not have much strength.
“What is it?”
“They are trying to probe me,” she said as calmly as possible. “Could you let me have some music, please? I can’t stop them alone.”
He did not say anything. He got up from the bed, went to a chest of drawers, found a transistor radio, switched it on, turned the volume up.
Vintage pop music flooded the room. Vanessa was immensely grateful. She relaxed her block and let the music dominate her mind.
“Why are they so persistent?” He had to speak loudly to make himself heard above the music.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you so good?”
“The best they had, I think. But at other schools there must be many who are as good, or better.”
Badel stroked his chin. “Not so many as you think, perhaps. Paranormals—t
he good ones—are much in demand these days… Did they let you see much tri-di at Random Hill?”
“Quite a lot. It was censored.”
“Then you may not know that Joe Humboldt is fascinated by paranormals. Just now, they are the in thing. The Prime Minister needs them for political insurance, therefore he is afraid of them.” He laughed grimly. “The political animal reasons thus: who is not with us is against us… Perhaps that is why they want you back so much. Perhaps you are—or could be—a valuable weapon in the psych war.”
“I don’t want to take part in any kind of war,” she said vehemently. “I just want to be left in peace… It is not only the Random Hill people who are trying to find out where I am. I know their patterns. But there are other patterns, other probes. At first, I thought they were all working with the police, or something like that. But there is a sort of smell of evil about some of them, a smell of death.” She shuddered. “They frighten me. They frighten me horribly... I’m so hungry. Could I have something to eat, please?”
He held her hand. “I have plenty of food waiting for you, my dear. Soup, milk, eggs, fish, meat—whatever you like. You shall have whatever you want in a minute or two. But let us think. Time may be critical. You want to be left in peace, and I want to be left in peace. Our interests are identical… I told you my name. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, it’s—“
“Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. What I told you was a pack of lies. Now I will tell you the truth. My real name is Oliver Anderson. I was injured in a hovercar collision. I used to be a painter. Perhaps, when I have fully recovered, I will paint again… What is my name?”
“Oliver Anderson.”
“Where do I live?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You really don’t know?”
“No. I just ran and ran. I don’t know where I am.”
Prisoner of Fire Page 4
